Complications
by SingingMisery
Summary: Life is complicated. Things happen for no rhyme or reason. Bad things, good things. Life in itself is a complication.


Title: Complications

Pairing: France/Canada

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse and rape...and hurt/comfort, I guess.

Notes: Genophobia is the fear of sex. I have wanted to write about it for quite some time. I used both county and real names in this fic.

* * *

Canada knew that life was complicated. There were things that happened that had no rhyme or reason. His new relationship with France was, in itself, a complication. Their relationship was a topic of interest among the other nations; mainly because anytime France took a new lover...they were wondering who had captured the amorous nation's attention.

But Canada could not bring himself to do anything beyond the occasional hug. The thought of kissing sent him into a dizzy sickness.

The thought of sex was even worse.

He was terrified of sex, of being naked in front of someone else. After what America did to him...Canada had trusted him. His trust had been broken into a million irreparable pieces that he didn't think he would ever be able to put back together. No one was allowed to see him like that. Not even France.

Not even France, who had helped him afterwards. Made sure Canada was taken care of. He had proven to be a godsend. At first, Canada was terrified that France would try something with him. every touch had terrifying intentions behind it. But the older nation was patient, slowly gaining the fragments of Canada's trust.

Canada didn't even know if this could be considered a relationship. They spend a lot of time together. They went out and ate together.

But they did not kiss. They did not sleep in the same bed. Half the time, they barely touched beyond a comforting grip or hug.

Canada didn't know. His brief time with America (he refused to call it a relationship) had been about control and pain. His consent hadn't mattered. He hadn't _mattered_.

It was different with France. Different as night and day. Different in gentleness and in quietness and so many other things that were slowly beating back the darkness inside him.

But he was guilty. Guilty of burdening France. Nothing the older nation said would make Canada change his mind, push back his uneasiness. But he couldn't let France go. He was afraid of what would happen if he did. So much of his life, his health now relied on the other blond.

* * *

His pulse increased as soon as the door shut.

Canada smiled at France, trying to keep his nerves in check. The older nation tilted his head and rested one elegant hand on Canada's hip.

As the hand slid higher, the nausea set in.

Involuntarily, his eyes squeezed shut. He was suddenly dragged back to a world of pain and fear. He could taste blood on his lips. And it was covering everything, his hands, his_ thighs_—

"Mathieu?"

He couldn't answer. Couldn't reach up through the rot and broken glass to that gentle voice. Couldn't move, to get away...

"Come back to me. You're safe, with me. I promise."

_I can't. _

"Where you are is scary, I know. You can leave. You are strong enough to leave.

He opened his eyes.

France was still in front of him, not touching, not moving. But his arms were open and his eyes gentle. With a breathy sob, Canada fell into them.

Warmth enveloped him, smelling of sandalwood and something like the innocence he lost. How could he ever think this man, this nation, would hurt him?

Canada pulled away, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. "S-sorry. I just...sorry."

France shook his head, pulling out a handkerchief out of his pocket. "There is nothing to apologize for, mon cher." He dabbed at the tears slipping down pale, beautiful cheeks.

Canada gripped the other's wrist, eyes anguished. "Francis...I told you I was ready. I lied and now I feel like I am breaking apart." He laughed bitterly, releasing France's hand. "I feel like there is something that is crawling inside of me at the very mention of sex. I break out in sweat and become physically ill. I get can't even let you kiss me without having a panic attack. I think there is a lot to apologize for."

There was silence after his outburst. Canada chewed viscously on the inside of his cheek, afraid that France was just going to walk out the door without another word.

Instead, the other blond looked at him sadly. Somehow, the pity was even worse. Then something changed in France's expression.

"Mathieu, do you remember the day I first met you?" The younger nation blinked at the odd question but nodded. "You were this stubborn, wild child who glared at me. And even though you fought with me and claimed to hate me, I promised myself one thing: I would protect you from whatever threatened you."

Canada sat back down.

"I failed that promise more than once. I let England take you away from me. I watched you in the great wars. I watched D-Day and Vimy and all of the horrible things that happened. On more than one occasion, you were hurt. But you kept pushing on, and I convinced myself you would be okay. You fell hard, but you "spread your wings." so to speak and never stopped flying." France inhaled, flattening his palms on his knees.

Canada unconsciously mimicked the same position.

"But then I found out what America had done to you. What he had been doing to you." The blond nation inhaled, forcing back anger and disgust, aimed at that bastard. Aimed at himself. Across the room, Canada closed his eyes briefly. ``I...was angry. Unbelievably angry and I wanted to hunt him down and kill him myself. But...you wouldn't let me. You were bruised and shaking, but you still thought about what would happen to the person—nation—who hurt you. I was amazed. ``

France stood and crossed the room to kneel in front of Canada. "Mathieu, I have always needed you in my life, even if I didn't communicate that well. You have helped me in more ways than you can ever imagine. And in that moment, I knew you needed me."

The younger nation started to pull back. France was doing this out of guilt, nothing else.

But France met his eyes. "I am not doing this out of guilt or some sense of repayment. I am selfish, _cher_ I am doing this because I care for you. You are strong, yes, but not invincible. You would have closed off your borders, closed in on yourself. I would have lost you..."

Bright blue eyes met France's. He leaned forward, daring to lightly grasp Canada's arms. "I'm doing this because I love you."

Canada didn't cry. But an outpour of emotion happened none the less. He fell into France's arms again, pressing his cheek against the other's chest. Arms encircled him lightly, as if afraid of his reaction. But Canada didn't panic. There was nothing bad about France's touch. The nation was going to hurt him or break him down. He wasn't afraid of this. They would be okay. He would be okay.

A little bit more of the consuming darkness had been pushed back, leaving room for calm light.

Later, he and France settled on the couch. Canada watched TV while France read a book. Their hands were lightly entwined with one another.

Canada surprised himself by asking France to sleep in the same bed. The other was surprised as well, but accepted the offer. There was always the possibility of another screaming nightmare, but he knew France would be there to wake him up, to hold him.

And that was what mattered.

* * *

It feels good to be back in the swing of things again. I haven't been writing as much lately, which saddens me.


End file.
